Blue & Yellow
by Vaudeville
Summary: Walter gets hurt and as Dan takes care of him, they find something unexpected in one another. - For Kink Meme. Based on 'Blue and Yellow' by The Used. Added original fill as well.
1. Part I

It has been a _long _time since either of them have had it this bad. Perhaps it has never been worse.

Nite Owl has never witnessed his partner crying before. He isn't certain that's what this is, but those sounds that Rorschach makes, he has heard them all enough to be able to give each its own meaning.

And the short, chipped _'hunhh'_ means '_pain_' and it is uttered so frequently by the time they reach Archie that, despite their faintness, Nite Owl can practically hear him weeping.

//

It takes quite a bit of prompting to get Rorschach to take his arm out of his pocket. It's practically wrapped up in it and his trench around that.

Dan Dreiberg is more than grateful that the bleeding has stopped. And more than _that,_ he's grateful that Rorschach never once argues, that he even _lets _Dan help him remove his trench and suit jacket. Dan is grateful that Rorschach lets him touch him at all.

//

But he has no choice.

//

Kovacs is hyper-aware of everything. That he is drenched in wet, sick cold that makes him hurt. That he can't feel his fingers and that they hurt. That his left suspender is a little but tighter on his shoulder than the right one. _And it hurts!_

He gnaws at his glove, balled up between his teeth so that he doesn't break them. Daniel resets his broken wrist and informs him in a quiet, apologetic tone that there is a lot of damage that he can't fix and that they will need to call Jon in the morning.

He nods. He can't look. He doesn't want to watch his life go up in flames by seeing and acknowledging what he already knows: the tendons have been severed and the appendage has been rendered useless.

He may never have use of his hand again.

His _left_ hand.

//

More than just Walter's body is crippled.

//

"C-can call Doctor Manhattan tuh-- _Hnh. Unh_. T-tonight?"

"It's almost four in the morning, Rorschach. I'm not gonna--"

"Henh. Does he s-s-sleep?"

Dan sees him smile but it's all teeth, like a snarl, like a wounded animal.

//

He calls after helping Rorschach upstairs into the bathroom.

//

Dan is calm as he listens to the muted dial-tone through the receiver.

It really bothers him that he is _so calm_. He wonders if it might make him feel better if he were to freak out a bit.

But he'd snapped earlier. Nite Owl had stumbled upon the scene to find his partner in pain, whimpering and trembling in the hands of his captors. And he'd lost it. Dan might have killed a man tonight. He doesn't know. He can't bring himself to care just yet. And that doesn't make him feel better. Not at all. Not one little bit.

//

It's Laurie that answers.

And Dan already knows that Jon wont be able to come. If Rorschach isn't dying, she won't to send her boyfriend over in the middle of the night to fix him, even if he _can_ be both places at once. So Dan doesn't ask. He just tells Laurie that he will call Jon tomorrow and that he's sorry for waking her.

_Really,_ he is.

//

Dan makes his way upstairs.

Rorschach cannot possibly be finished in the shower yet. By the sound of it (or rather, the lack of sound of it), Rorschach has opted for a bath instead.

Dan cannot possibly help but check on him.

He knocks on the door, rapping his knuckles lightly, and turns the knob with his left hand, with a simple dexterity that his partner may never have again.

He pokes his head into the bathroom just in time to see Rorschach sit back up, pulling the discarded dress shirt over his lap. He's sitting on the toilet, naked save for his wife-beater, and the bathtub is filled with crystal clear, untouched water. And Rorschach's ruined arm is just..._ there_, resting on his thigh, lame and pale and lifeless. A glaringly ugly thing.

"Water is too hot," Rorschach explains in frustration.

And Dan is almost certain now that Rorschach has been crying. He can tell by the way he carefully turns his face so that Dan can't see the his cheeks where the mask is rolled up, by the way every breath hitches on something like a sob, by the way that he is trembling with such violence that Dan can see it from the doorway.

"Can't get my shirt off," Rorschach tells him finally, as if it's the worst of his problems.

//

An it's all that Walter can take. He hunches over and finally lets himself go. The mask bubbles as a sob, _a real one_, finally escapes him and he rips it off in anger, tossing it away. He can hear Daniel gasp but doesn't look at him. It doesn't matter. Not anymore.

Doctor Manhattan can do wonders, miracles even, if he wants to. But the fact of the matter is that he doesn't want to. He doesn't _want_ anything. He doesn't _do_ anything. _Why would he do anything to help me?_

_'Funny thing is,' _the Comedian had told him once, _'Blue Balls over there could make it so that the world doesn't need people like us to run around n' try n' fix shit. But he doesn't. He just lets us fuck it up worse and tells us we're doomed five minutes before the axe drops.'_

_It's over. _Life as he knows it._  
_

_Over._

//

Dan isn't sure what to do at first. Surely standing there, frozen and gawking like an idiot is not the right answer. But he is at a loss. Still, anything is better than nothing and he knows that he _has _to do _something. _

Dan pushes the door open a bit more and shuffles closer, stepping past this man who is his partner and sitting slowly on the side of the tub.

He doesn't look at Rorschach, not directly. It's a shame, because he has longed for years for his partner to reveal his real face to him. But Dan isn't so certain that he wants to see it anymore. Things are bad enough already and Rorschach is falling apart. Dan doesn't know if he can deal with so much humanity from this otherwise dispassionate and tenacious man. He can't bear to see this weakness in him. But neither can he stand by and leave him to flounder.

Dan cinches closer and reaches out to him, hazarding a glance at this man he doesn't know. He places a tentative hand on his shoulder, moving to slip that same hand across his back, an arm around his shoulders.

And then Rorschach is lunging into Dan's chest, almost knocking him into the bathtub. His hands squeeze Dan's sides a bit too hard, clinging to him like they are- like he is- being torn apart. And Dan doesn't know what he hell else to do but let him.

He carefully brings his other arm fully around his broken friend, holding him firmly, securely. And he is still _so damn calm. _Dan dips his chin to a mess of vibrant red hair and closes his eyes as quiet whimpers and laments and sniffles echo off the ceramic tiles.

//

Tens of minutes pass and Rorschach isn't crying anymore. He's still making that- _hohn_- that sound but the tears on Dan's shirt have dried. He's still shaking, practically humming in vibration and he hasn't pushed Dan away from him yet, but he has calmed considerably. And Dan can finally speak. But he doesn't.

He slides his hand over his partner's back in slow, careful circles, so that when his fingers curl under Rorschach's wife-beater, it doesn't shock him too badly. Rorschach doesn't respond but to sit up as Dan carefully peels the undershirt off.

It's a struggle, getting his right arm and his head out of it without looking at him. His left arm is easier, however. Although Dan really does_ not_ want to look at _it,_ he wants even less to hurt him and he puts his single attention on it.

//

Walter watches Daniel. Watches the way he wont look at him. He doesn't know whether to feel touched or angry or... _Anything._

He also can't help but wonder what this injury, this handicap, will mean for the two of them, if they will ever see each other again after this. If he knew Daniel, and he liked to think that he _did_, their few short years of partnership and even fewer of friendship wouldn't go to waste. At least, not on Daniel's watch. He would try in vain to find some way for Walter to still be a part of this world and Rorschach would only grow more distant now that Walter had failed his ideal.

And the rest of him? He will likely lose his job as well; after all, he can't sew with only one hand. His landlord will kick him out because he can't pay for rent and he will have to find a new place to work and live, but who the hell is going to hire a gimp anyway and who would rent a flat to a useless crippled unemployed mutt and jesusandhesonlytwentyeightyearsold

Walter yelps as Daniel strokes a warm, wet hand down his back. The surprise and the pain that follow his reflexive jolt shock him out of his implosive thoughts. He stares hard at Daniel, who is finally venturing to look at him a bit more, though he makes it no higher than Walter's cheeks.

"It should be fine now," Daniel tells him, scooping another handful of water and moving his hand from Walter's shoulder down to his arm.

Daniel's eyes turn away and he nudges Walter to sit up again. Walter flusters and moves to better cover his bare lap once more, his cheeks burning bright as he realizes his exposed nudity.

Daniel doesn't seem to notice as he stands, then crouches to pick up Rorschach's face, holding it out to him. "Do you need help getting in?"

Walter stares at the latex, watching it swirl dully in the heat of Daniel's fingertips. He takes it from him. "Don't think so."

Daniel nods and moves to the door. "I'll be right down the hall in my room if you need anything, okay, Buddy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm gonna throw your clothes in the wash too," Daniel says and stoops to pick those up as well. "You're staying the night tonight, right?" And then Daniel looks up at him, meeting his eyes as Walter stares back, unabashedly. Daniel seems unaffected by his plain, ugly features, looking him over briefly then respectfully settling on his eyes again.

Walter nods slowly. "Yes."

//

Dan smiles softly. "Good."

When he moves to leave, Rorschach has a grip on his shirt, keeping him from standing. "Daniel..."

"Yeah?" Dan asks and looks at him again, seeing his brows purse and his eyes... He doesn't know for certain what it is he see there, what is behind those eyes, but he can see something.

"Thank you."


	2. Part II

Walter tentatively steps into the bathtub. He hisses as he sinks in, the steaming water scorching his goose pimpled skin. He reclines against the back of the tub, submerges to get the whole of himself wet and then pushes himself back up so that his nose is just above the surface.

It hurts. All of it hurts. All of _him_.

And as he relaxes into the water, it clouds almost instantly, contaminated. He's covered in blood and sweat and muck despite the fact that he showered the night before, as he usually does after patrol. The water takes on a murky rose hue and turns his skin from white to a blotchy pink, then red. He's covered in bruises and scars. Some new. Some old. He's a patchwork of colors.

He lifts a finger on his right hand, waits until all the water in the tub stills, and then taps the surface of the water. He watches the ripples multiply from where his finger lands, marveling over how one tiny movement could grow, break, and multiply with just a subtle collision.

The pain and the filth ease and seep out and off of him and into the water.

And all is silent.

//

Looking at him. Seeing his face. His eyes. How Dan has longed to see him. And now... God, he still wants to just _look_ at him, even if it hurts.

But such are simple luxuries. He takes them for granted with everyone and everything on a daily basis. It's a luxury he has just taken for granted with the one person he has always yearned to see the most.

And to touch.

_The most. _

Not because he needs to-- in order to stitch up wounds and yank him out of the way in the nick of time-- but because he wants to. Because he _is wanted to_, too.

//

Walter has never done this in the bath before, made the ripples. He hasn't taken a bath since he was eight. And he hasn't the foggiest idea as to what has led him to it tonight. _Didn't think I could stand on my own. Didn't want to have to ask Daniel for help. For him to have to see. Have to hold me up._

But Daniel already has. Both. And it's been through Walter's own actions. Daniel has seen him. He's seen Walter naked before. And he's seen his face on the street as well, though without recognition. But Daniel hasn't held Walter before tonight. No one has. And Daniel has never seen Walter so raw.

Walter had been crying. He doesn't have the heart to be angry with himself. It felt good to let go like that after so many years of bottling up horrors and fears. It was the pain. His arm. And the water. His stupid shirt. And Daniel's arms around him. On him._ Daniel touched me. _Unnecessarily. And the bath. Walter hates baths. Loathes them. Because of _her_.

When he was a boy, she-- _Mother_-- would kneel next to the tub and scrub him raw when he was this dirty, scour his skin until he was clean and until he behaved. And Walter would cry. Bathing was always a punishment. One of many.

Any time she had touched him, it was to hurt him. Because he was bad or filthy. Because she hated him. As long as Walter was a good boy, as long as he stayed clean, as long as he stayed away, he wasn't punished. Mother never touched him otherwise. Except to hurt him.

Nobody ever has.

At the Home, they had showers, which Walter had used daily. At his flat and sometimes here, in Daniel's home, he still does. He keeps himself and everything in his life neat and clean and pure. He reaches for the soap.

//

Walter reaches with the wrong arm and it's agony. _Hunhh_. His broken wrist sags without a cast and the collision with the wall jars his fractured bones painfully. It floats eerily in the water and he feels like vomiting as he draws it against his chest.

He sits up and searches through the ugly water for the soap, feeling with his right hand. Each time he thinks he's grasping it, it slips out of his fingers and only adds to his frustration.

Cooling droplets move down his spine. He sighs and grows still, closing his eyes and hanging his head. He pulls his hand from the water and rubs his neck, squeezing the tense muscles and watching in his mind's eye as the droplets slip down his back, washing away everything.

He provides another scoop of water, more deliberate this time to wash over his back as Daniel had done, pressing his palm against the stiff muscles of his shoulders. As Daniel had done. He imagines a hand working its way down with the trailing droplets.

Walter has never been given such a caring, tender touch in all his life.

His hand lowers into the water and he finds the soap against his knee.

He wishes Daniel was here to rinse him clean.

//

Dan doesn't blame himself. Not really. He's been at this long enough to know that sometimes things just _happen_.

He might have prevented it, however. He might have done many things differently and it's too late to do something about anything now. He also might not have done such things. And it's too late to not do something anymore.

//

Walter isn't shaking anymore. He isn't cold.

The ripples are easier to see.

//

Holding him. That truly wasn't his doing. Rorschach had been the one to put himself in Dan's arms. And he had tried not to touch the broken man more than was necessary.

But pouring water over his shoulders. Rubbing it into his bare skin. That had been pure indulgence. Dan tells himself that he meant for it to be a comforting act. _For _Rorschach. But it was selfish. Dan had done it because he wanted to. To make _himself_ feel better, even though _he_ wasn't the one who needed comforting.

And Rorschach is never that easily mollified.

//

Dan considers the man beneath the mask as he waits for the washer to fill with water. For the millionth time in the years they have worked together, Dan wonders who he really is, where he came from, what sort of life he's lived. He wonders over all the 'whats' and 'whys' that have plagued him for years.

Now that he's seen him, Dan can only wonder more.

From what he can extrapolate, Rorschach isn't as well off as to have a rich father die and leave him tons of money. Or even to afford a decent place to live for that matter. He told Dan that the water in his building sometimes doesn't get anything above freezing during the winter. Rorschach showers at Dan's almost nightly these days.

He knows that Rorschach is both a crime fighter and a working man. He knows that's why Rorschach doesn't show up for patrol sometimes. He knows it's also why Rorschach gets so damn tired that he can't see straight or even argue when Dan makes him take the guest bedroom and calls off patrol for the evening.

This, juxtaposed with Dan's good fortune, doesn't seem to particularly phase the smaller man, so Dan likewise suspects that he's always lived a poor, hard life. It's quite humbling.

Dan also suspects, sadly, that Rorschach is alone, that he's always been that way, and that Dan is one of his only friends. He might feel guilty for considering himself so high in status in his partner's life, but it's hard not to be so assuming given the circumstances.

Rorschach comes to Dan for everything. He often pretends that he doesn't need Dan's help, that he is self-sufficient or even better off without him, but Dan sees through his sneaky attempts to toe his way into getting Dan's approval, help, or attention.

And now his hand is ruined. Dan can only imagine what must be running through his partner's mind. He's sure that Rorschach is worried about the mask. He _lives_ by that thing, like a talisman that makes him better than what he already is, whatever that may be.

Dan understands. Kind of. He feels the same way when it comes to Nite Owl. But Dan could live without the mask if he needed to. He could move on with his life, make friends outside of crime fighting, and go on doing what he had set out to do with his life... Whatever _that _may be. He doesn't _need_ his mask like Rorschach did.

As for his partner? Could he do the same? Well, outside of his nighttime façade, the details are muddled between reality and the varying suspicions, extrapolations, and guesses he had made over the years. In actuality Dan doesn't truly know much about him at all and Rorschach is none too eager to share himself. Every time his partner has revealed anything at all about his true self, it has been done with shame.

But the way the broken, forlorn little redhead had stared at him, there was no shame. It was as if he had wanted Dan to look at him. To see him and take him as he was. And that makes Dan feel like shit for not looking at him.

All doubts about how much the other man needs him... Well, they are long out of sight, especially after the way Rorschach had flung himself into Dan's arms and wept against his shoulder. He hopes after tonight, Rorschach will be able to ask Dan for help more readily. He hopes that he wont push him away if Jon fails to help him. He hopes that everything will be okay and that he will only be hurting for tonight, just for tonight. And Dan hopes that he wont lose Rorschach and that he wont be forced to face just how much he needs this man who he hardly knows.

The washer takes forever to fill with water. Dan can't blame him for using all the hot water.

He can't blame him for much of anything right now.

//

Dan walks upstairs from the Owl's Nest and continues onto the second floor. He pauses by the bathroom, an ear to the door as he listens to the quiet sounds of water sloshing in the tub. He moves to open the door and catches himself before he goes further.

_What the hell am I doing?_ It surprises him how much he wants to go in and sit and... Well, _watch. There's nothing wrong with that, right? _Dan tries to reassure himself. _You'd never even consider it if not for what happened tonight,_ he acknowledges, chastising himself. But he doesn't leave. His hand is on the handle.

It should feel more perverse. It should feel wrong to admit that he wants to watch his friend bathe. But he feels no different than he did those mornings, years ago, when he would sit on the sink counter next to where his father stood, and would watch him shave. It was always a matter of comfort and proximity. Security. Sharing a close, familiar space with someone who was likewise close and familiar. And when he was old enough, his dad would let him take the straight-razor and wipe it off for him. Back when his father still smiled on him and recited Halakhah with him and would let Dan help... Back before Dan went against his father's wishes and followed his own desires and delights. Back before Dan let him down.

When his father lay dying, Dan had sat with him in his hospital bed with a bedpan full of warm water and a safety razor in hand, shaving his father's cheeks and throat. And his father wouldn't look at him.

//

Dan lets go of the handle and moves away from the door, then goes to his bedroom. He grabs his glasses and gathers some extra clothes for Rorschach. Something to slip into until his regular clothes are dry. Or, at least, something to sleep in, if he can sleep at all.

He doubts that either of them will be able to tonight.


	3. Part III

Dan knocks on the door. "Rorschach?"

"Hurm?"

"Can I, er... Can I come in?"

He turns the door handle and pushes the door open a bit, poking his head in and forcing himself to look at his partner. _Don't act like you're ashamed of him. He's your best friend. _And so he looks. What he finds makes a wide grin spread across his features.

A blue eyed, mop-topped lobster stares over at him from the bathtub. "What?" Rorschach asks accusingly, a wary but playful flicker of expression shining in his eyes.

"You're bright red, man. Er, your skin, that is."

Rorschach frowns and looks down at himself, as if inspecting his skin. And then he looks at Dan. "Yes. Water is still hot." He gives a shrug which transforms his calm expression into a pained wince. "Mmnh."

Dan steps into the bathroom without thinking, hardly noticing the sharp, apprehensive stare he receives for it. "I brought you a change of clothes." He holds the clothes up briefly for emphasis and then, as if the first statement is the afterthought, he asks, "How's the pain?"

Rorschach is silent for a moment, propping his right elbow on the edge of the tub and turning his shoulder as if to shield himself. "Better." Dan can see him swallow. He wonders if he is hiding his nudity or his injury. He gazes down at his partner with sad, understanding eyes. Rorschach only holds the contact for a moment before looking away, down into the polluted water. "Barely tolerable. Will get better," he adds quietly.

"Are you sure you wont take anything for it?" Dan asks gently, sitting down on the toilet seat.

The other man shakes his head, looking over at the clothes in Dan's lap as he sits down, and runs a hand through his short red hair. "Already been through the worst of it."

"Hey, you missed a spot there on your arm, buddy," Dan tells him, pointing. But Rorschach doesn't look to where he points, only growing more still as Dan leans over his knees, venturing just a little closer. "And your shoulder and--"

Dan pauses, noting how his face seems to turn a shade brighter of red. "You can't reach it, can you?" Rorschach doesn't answer. It was rhetorical anyway. Of course he can't wash the only arm he has to wash with. Neither he can't reach most of his back.

Dan's heart flops and before he can stop himself, he's kneeling by the tub. Rorschach sits up a little straighter and looks at Dan quizzically. "Do you want me to--? Can... Can I help you?"

Those blue eyes are dark and imploring as they regard Dan closely. Rorschach drops his arm into the water again, growing still for a moment, and then lifting out of the water to hand the glistening bar of soap to Dan.

He nods.

//

Walter sighs softly and closes his eyes.

He has turned in the tub to face the wall to expose more of his back. His ruined arm is draped across his lap, the other across his knees which he has drawn up to account for the small width of the tub, and he lowers his head to rest against his bicep.

Daniel is washing his back. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a soapy washrag in his left hand. The last time Walter looked, there were droplets of water on Daniel's glasses.

Walter is too aware of everything. Of the soft yet coarse friction of the rag and how it contrasts with the graze of Daniel's broad, smooth fingers. Of the fact that Daniel must have a hangnail on his thumb and that it should feel unpleasant as it drags on his skin. It doesn't.

He is too aware that this should really bother him.

It doesn't.

He is rather certain that his back is clean now. But he doesn't ask Daniel to stop.

It's not so bad since he doesn't have to look at him. It's not so bad when Dan follows each gentle swipe of the washrag with one of his hand. Walter is hard, erect between his bent knees. He only worries a little about whether or not Daniel notices. After all, this isn't exactly sexual. Sensual, perhaps. And Walter's senses are already overstimulated. From pain and hurting and--

It's just relaxing. Comforting. He feels safe. He feels clean in a way that has nothing to do with soap and water.

And it doesn't hurt.

It's getting better and Walter feels more okay than he did an hour ago. Than he has in a while.

And it's more than barely tolerable.

//

"It's--" Dan says. He doesn't finish. He wants to say something. Anything. But he doesn't know what else there is to say. He was going to say, 'It's okay.' But it isn't and they both know that.

Rorschach extends his right arm over the side of the tub and Dan reaches over his shoulder, re-wetting the rag. He does not looked at Rorschach's ruined arm. The black stitches over the red line on the white skin that are barely hours old.

Dan lathers soap in the rag and makes a smooth swipe with it from Rorschach's right shoulder down to his wrist, scrubbing lightly, twisting around the muscle. He does it twice. And he can't help the smile that emerges when his friend squirms as he washes his underarm.

Dan sets the rag aside, playfully drapes it on Rorschach's shoulder, his neck. He receives a look when it gets suds on the other man's cheek. He'll have to rinse that off as well.

Dan uses both hands, rubbing the soap in, taking up dirt and sweat and blood. He leans closer, reaching into the tub to bring scoops of water to rinse it away. He counts freckles and ignores the filthy water that is falling over the side and onto his pajama pants.

He feels his stomach clench when he rinses Rorschach's forearm and he sees his fingers uncurl, like an invitation. But... But that seems far more intimate than Dan can handle at the moment, touching his partner's hand.

Without reason.

//

A sick twist of emotional strikes in his gut. It feels surreal like he is trapped in a dream though the reality of the moment is so crystal clear that he knows it can't be.

His heart pounds and his hands shake. And he simpers and wants to lean even closer and bury his nose into the damp red curls at the base of his partner's neck. But Dan knows he shouldn't.

He wants to say, 'It's okay.' Because they're both okay. They aren't doing anything wrong.

But Dan _thinks _he shouldn't, though he doesn't know why.

//

Touching his hand.

Without reason.

Too intimate.

He does it anyway.

//

Walter swallows and does his best not to react as Daniel's fingers move over his undamaged wrist and the butt of his palm. It tickles a bit. His fingers curl over Daniel's reflexively. There is some hesitation. Walter opens his eyes to watch as Daniel's fingers pause in their trek and then continue, pushing his fingers until their hands are palm to palm.

Walter's fingers are longer but Daniel's are thicker, stronger. They curl around his fingertips and Walter knows, as he presses them into Daniel's palm, that this is an excuse. He anticipates the way Daniel's fingers lace between his own, as if he is willing it to happen himself, and before they can slide out of his reach, he twines them tightly, squeezing Daniel's hand in his own.

Walter didn't realize it til now._ Have wanted this for a long time._ To be touched and cared for. _To not hurt._

Daniel sighs a deep slow breath and squeezes Walter's hand in return, resigning to accept a simple truth. He makes no move to disengage their hands. Walter turns his head as Daniel props his other arm across the side of the tub, behind Walter's shoulder. The fingers of Daniel's free hand land on his Walter's arm, an honest fulfillment of the desire, the _need_ to touch.

He closes his eyes again and tilts his head back to Daniel, whose forehead comes to rest against the nape of Walter's neck. The sounds of their contented sighs fill the silence of this close, familiar space.

//

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"...I don't know."

//

He is drifting on empty thoughts, breathing deep and slow as the minutes pass and the sharp pain lulls to an ache. If it weren't for that he might have forgotten.

Walter inhales sharply and lifts his head as Daniel finally lets his hand go. He blinks his eyes open and stares down at the water, unsure of how long they have been like this. The water has grown cooler. It feels good. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. Daniel's fingers slowly trace a vein up his arm and Walter closes his eyes, feeling warm breath against his shoulder.

When he feels Daniel shift away, he feels hollow. "Have you washed your hair?"

Daniel removes the washrag from Walter's shoulder and puts it in the lukewarm water to wash it out. Walter's eyes glance sideways as Daniel hangs the rag over the faucet. He repeats his question.

Walter closes his eyes once more and licks his lips. "Yes."

"...Oh."

He feels water and fingers moving on his shoulder and his neck. A thumb wipes soap from his jaw. His skin crawls as silence hangs over them. And he can imagine them causing ripples. He can feel them in his skin as deliberate fingertips comb through the dried hair on the back of his neck.

_Go ahead_, he wants to say. But he cant.

Walter starts when Daniel's hand lands on his forearm. His left forearm. He opens his eyes and tucks the battered limb closer to his chest, looking at his partner as his touch follows. Daniel's hand slips beneath his own, his palm against the top of Walter's limp hand, his own palm open to the air. The other man is exaggeratedly gentle, careful with the broken wrist, the sutured flesh. It makes the pain of moving it bearable.

Another arm comes around the other side of him and he can feel the fabric of Daniel's shirt against his back. Daniel brushes the pads of his fingers over Walter's his own. These fingers do not open by reflex. They do not reach to invite the touch. They do not move at all.

"Can you feel me?"

Walter swallows and casts his eyes low. He shakes his head. He can feel Daniel everywhere. Everywhere except where he is currently touching him. Everywhere except where Daniel wants Walter to feel him.

He can hear Daniel sigh. "The water's getting cold. Are you ready to get out?"

//

"I'm, uh. I'm gonna get a fresh towel and some wraps and a split for your arm, okay?" Dan calls from the hallway. He opens the linen closet and stands within the frame, taking a moment to adjust himself inside his pajamas. He is not surprised by his arousal in the least. The past sixty minutes have been the most intimate of his life.

He had been reluctant to pull away but he had to before things got out of hand. _Rorschach would never allow this if he wasn't so vulnerable. You're taking advantage of a broken, defenseless man. And for what? Comfort? That's just unacceptable.  
_

Dan shivers as a chill runs up his spine. He turns and looks in time to see an explosive blue flash illuminate the bathroom. "Hello, Rorschach," Dan hears and he closes his eyes, feeling his heart sinking.

"Dr. Manhattan--"

"Laurie is informing me tomorrow that Dan called."

Dan goes downstairs, leaving the closet open and his partner with Jon.

Unacceptable or not. Dan has never felt so close to anyone.

And now it's all over.

_Over._


	4. Part IV

It's six in the morning. Dan stands in his kitchen, absently toying with the coffee percolator. The sun is rising unnaturally early for the winter months and there is a fresh layer of snow covering everything, reflecting its light.

He hears Rorschach enter the kitchen but he doesn't look, watching the minute details of the Chrysler building sharpen as the world brightens.

There is a hand on Dan's left forearm. There is a bare thumb, a thumb which had no strength or feeling in it fifteen minutes before. It is brushing against Dan's wrist. The thumb accompanies fingers which could not feel him half an hour ago. They tighten as they circle his wrist. Dan squeezes the counter so hard that it creeks.

"Sorry."

"Why?"

There is no response. The hand and the thumb and the touch are gone. "Sorry this happened to us."

And Dan stands in his kitchen.

Alone.

//

Walter stands in front of the rumbling drier, his arms crossed over his chest, the mask swirling slowly as he waits. He is impatient. He knows Daniel is standing behind him, leaning against Archie's rear booster. He doesn't acknowledge the other man.

Walter is _impatient_, waiting for his clothes to finish drying. Or for Daniel to say something. Do something. He knows that his partner isn't good at these things. Making up his mind. Doing something about anything. It's such a fantastic contradiction between he and Nite Owl. It's not so different between Walter and Rorschach.

Wearing the mask again, he hates himself for what he has done, what he has allowed. For revealing himself, his weaker side. For crying. For giving up so readily. For letting Daniel put his hands all over him and allowing him to compromise his integrity.

And for wanting to take the mask off now. For wanting to turn and look Daniel. His hands twitch at his sides and he sighs as thoughts of what he wants to do with them, where he wants to place them, what he wants to touch corrupt his carefully blank mind. _Is cowardice to stand here and ignore what happened, _he thinks._ But too indulgent. Want more and don't even know what this... What that was. Will always be wanting more and more._

So he waits for Daniel to do what he usually does; say the wrong thing. Awkwardly fumble through what he thinks Walter wants to hear, even if it means forsaking what he truly feels. And for Daniel to do nothing. He never does.

The buzzer on the drier sounds and the Nest grows quiet.

Walter steps forward and opens the drier door, crouching in front of it as he reaches in and pulls his clothes out. They are deliciously hot in his hands. It's beautiful irony, the way he was brought to his knees, given such heat and comfort, and now as he stands in the cold basement, his bare toes curling on the cement. And again when he stands, raising to his full height, he still shivers when Daniel touches him with hands that are just as warm as the clothing in his arms, just as warm as Walter expects them to be.

He is still as Daniel lifts the back of the shirt Walter has borrowed and rubs his palms against the planes of his back. He shouldn't still like this as much as he does. Before, he was vulnerable. Sniveling little Kovacs. His world had been falling apart and he along with it, too ready to surrender. And these hands were all that had kept him together with a tenderness he didn't deserve.

Now he is stronger. He can stand on his own to feet. He doesn't have to surrender. "Daniel--"

"Shh," his partner hushes into his ear.

One hand leaves his skin, is brought out from under his shirt. It moves over his shoulder to his neck. Daniel's fingers wiggle beneath the hem of the latex mask and Walter doesn't move as Daniel brushes his fingers up through his ginger hair. The mask catches on Dan's knuckles, pulling it up with them, and Walter feels a tightness in his throat that has nothing to do with the constricting mask.

Rorschach does _nothing_ as Daniel removes the mask altogether. He simply _watches_ as Daniel puts the mask on the drier, lets Daniel take his clothes form his hands and sets them aside. And then that freed hand is on his skin again, beneath his shirt.

"I'm not sorry," Dan tells him. "That this happened, I'm not. I'm sorry that it caused you pain. But you'll be fine now.

"And," Dan takes a slow breath, leaning close. "I'm sorry if you regret... What happened upstairs." Dan pauses and Walter wonders if he is supposed to say something. He can't think with those hands on him, moving around him embrace him, both settling over his pounding heart. "I don't," Dan whispers. "And I'm not sorry."

//

Dan can't help himself.

He wants so much, so many things that he's never fully acknowledged. Things that he _needs_. And one of them is to _just fucking hold him. _When Rorschach shifts, so very slightly, moving just the smallest amount to lean back against him, he is no longer ashamed to admit it to himself. He just wants to hold him, so he does, and there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with that.

There is nothing _unacceptable_ about the press of his hands on the smaller man's body. There can't be when he feels that they belong there. There is nothing _shameful_ in the way Rorschach's hands and arms come over his, separated only by a thin layer of cotton. Daniel Dreiberg will never be _sorry_, neither for how wonderfully right it feels, it _is_, to bury his face into his partner's neck, nor for the sigh that it draws out of the smaller man.

And before he can truly identify the intention, Dan is lifting up the shirt and Rorschach is raising his arms. Dan's hands leave him for mere seconds as he strips the shirt away and tosses it aside. Against his chest, Dan can feel Rorschach shiver.

Dan's hand lands on his stomach and Rorschach takes his arms, drawing both of them back around him. His name is whispered, like a plea or a prayer.

And Dan hums with something like love, _Agape,_ as he pulls his partner tightly against him. "Stay."

There is no argument, but Dan knows that he can't. If things had been different, if Rorschach still stood before him, maimed and in need, he would. But he's not. So he wont.

//

Walter still aches.

Jon could have taken away the residual pain but he didn't. He's almost grateful. It makes these surreal moments with Daniel a bit more concrete. And it makes Walter a little less bitter and a little more because he knows it can't last forever.

Daniel doesn't say a word. He simply holds him and traces the scars on his bare chest, the dips between muscle on his stomach and breast.

Walter's heart flutters as Daniel holds his left arm away from his body. There is a line on Walter's skin, stretching over his palm down his forearm. A line where, only hours before, Walter's flesh had been savagely torn open, where Daniel had sewn in stitches that are no longer there. And Daniel's fingers are touching it, the line. His hands are shaking as his palm slides over the back of his hand and the strong, broad fingers wrap around and press to his palm.

Walter turns his head to look at him, catching his eyes as Daniel stares down at him. _Yes. _"Can feel you."

There is a line and Daniel presses his lips to it. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, wrapping himself around Walter once more. Lips flutter against his bare shoulder. "Does it--?"

"No. Doesn't hurt. Feels... Feels good." _Secure. Safe._

He can feel Daniel murmur something, feel it rumble in the chest at his back, spoken against his skin. But he can't hear it and the words are lost. And that's okay.

When Walter shivers again from the hot breath that is sighed against his shoulder, Daniel lets him go, stepping to stand beside him, in front of him. He takes Rorschach's wife-beater from atop the drier and rolls it up. Walter does not protest as Daniel helps him shrug it on, much like he had helped him peel it off earlier, though he is not in need of aid now. Daniel's hands smooth the shirt over his torso, making the cloth more solid and yet less of a barrier as he reasserts his own closeness. It is still blissfully warm.

//

Dan reaches behind himself blindly for another article of clothing and turns to look at the white dress shirt in his hand. The blood stain marks the sleeve orange.

Rorschach reaches out as Dan turns to him and takes the sleeves, unbuttons the cuffs. He peers up at him, holding his breath and stepping closer. Dan eyes him wonderingly and then brings the shirt around him. Rorschach slips his arms into each sleeve and waits patiently as Dan slowly fastens each button. Rorschach rolls up the stained sleeve until the blood is no longer visible. Dan buttons the cuff on his right.

And then Rorschach is wrapped up in him again, pressed to Dan's chest as he strokes his hands over his back and his arms. There are long, thin fingers pressing to his chest, taking fistfuls of Dan's shirt.

Dan reaches back, brings around Rorschach's boxers. He blushes and hands them over, turning away bodily to sift through the drier as Rorschach strips down and pulls these on himself. Dan hands back the striped trousers as they're requested, fingering the sleeve of the suit jacket. It's stained, but it only makes the violet a shade darker, like indigo.

There are suspenders somewhere in the pile and when he pulls them out, Rorschach steps up behind him, placing a hand on his arm. Dan turns and swallows, drapes the suspenders over Rorschach's shoulders and, with only a modicum of hesitation when his partner doesn't stop him, he steps close and peers down the planes of Rorschach's back to attach the tabs to his trousers. He smooths the straps over Rorschach's shoulders and straightens them over his chest, pausing as his hands lower to the front of his pants.

Rorschach opens his mouth to speak but the words don't come out as more than a soft tut and fade away altogether as he looks up at Dan. His cool blue eyes are steady on his own and as Dan's hands move low on his sides, he doesn't protest.

With a gentle pull, Rorschach's trousers are inched up his hips again and Dan tries to steady his hands as he tucks the front of his shirt in more. He pulls one strap down and fastens the tabs, then the other. He straightens the elastic bands once more and secures their fastenings. As his hands linger on the slight but sharp hipbones, his thumbs dipping just below the waistline-- to tuck his shirt in again, of course-- a shiver runs through them both.

Dan forces himself to let go and turn away. He reaches for the vest and unfolds it, taking a moment to catch his breath and running his hands over the satin of the lavender backing. And he jolts when he feels him. It is not Dan who asserts himself, not this time. Rorschach reaches out to him, wraps his arms around his partner from behind and lowers his head, setting the crown against Dan's spine.

//

And Dan is held in turn.

It burns right through him.

He takes one of Rorschach's hands and brings it under his chin. He sighs when lithe, calloused fingers, no longer soft and smooth with soap and water, uncurl and explore his jaw. Dan lowers his head and draws his lips apart as they're caressed. He forgets about the vest that has fallen from his grasp and that has pooled atop his bare feet.

"What's your name?" He asks. And without the slightest clue as to where the question came from.

//

Walter's index finger traces the ridge on the top of Daniel's upper lip as he answers him.

And then he pauses, drawing his touch just a bit lower, and feeling Daniel speak his name.

And it doesn't hurt.

_He _doesn't hurt.

He is alive for the first time in his life.

And he feels.

_Amazing._


	5. Original Fill

The original fill, in its entirety before editing and expanding. For: http://spam-monster .livejournal. com/2938html?thread=6628474#t6628474

* * *

It's been a _long _time since either of them have had it this bad. Perhaps it's never been worse. Dan has never witnessed his partner crying before. He's not certain that's what this is, but those sounds that Rorschach makes, Dan's heard them all enough to be able to give each its own meaning. And the short, chipped 'hunhh' means _pain_ and it's uttered so frequently by the time they reach Archie that, despite their faintness, Dan can practically hear him weeping.

It takes quite a bit of prompting to get Rorschach to pull his arm out of his pocket. It's practically wrapped up in it and his trench around that. Dan is more than grateful that the bleeding has stopped. And more than _that,_ that Rorschach never once argued and has even _let _Dan help him remove his trench coat and suit jacket.

Rorschach is hyper-aware of everything. That he is drenched in wet cold that makes him hurt. That he can't feel his fingers and that they hurt. That his left suspender is a little but tighter on his shoulder than the right one. _And it hurts!_

He gnaws at his glove, balled up between his teeth so that he doesn't break them as Dan resets his wrist. There is a lot of damage that Dan cant fix and that they'll need to call Jon for in the morning. He can't look. Doesn't want to see his life go up in flames by seeing and acknowledging what he already knows: that his tendons have been severed and he may never have use of his hand again. His _left_ hand.

"C-can call Jon tuh-- Hnh. Unh. Tonight?"

"It's four in the morning, Rorschach, I'm not gonna--"

"Henh. Does he s-s-sleep?"

Dan sees him smile but it's all teeth, like a snarl, like an animal. So Dan calls after getting Rorschach into the bathtub. Dan is calm. And it really bothers him. He wonders if he might somehow feel better if he freaks out a bit. But he had snapped earlier. And that didn't make him feel better at all. Not one little bit.

It's Laurie that answers. And Dan already knows that Jon wont be able to come. If Rorschach wasn't dying, she wasn't gonna send her boyfriend over in the middle of the night to fix him, even if Jon _could_ be both places at once. So he doesn't ask. He just tells her that he'll call her tomorrow and that he's sorry for waking her. _Really,_ he is.

Dan makes his way upstairs. Rorschach can't possibly be finished in the shower yet and by the sound of it (or rather, the lack of sound of it), Rorschach has opted for a bath instead. Still, Dan can't possibly help but check on him. He knocks on the door, rapping his knuckles lightly, and turns the knob with his other hand-- a simple dexterity his (former?) partner may never have again-- and he pokes his head in just in time to see Rorschach sit back up, pulling his discarded shirt over his lap.

He's sitting on the toilet, naked save for his undershirt, and the tub is filled up with crystal clear, untouched water. And Rorschach's arm is just... there, resting on his thigh, pale and lifeless. An ugly thing.

"Water is too hot," Rorschach explains in frustration. And now Dan is almost certain he's been crying by the way he carefully turns his face so that Dan can't see the his cheeks where the mask is rolled up and by the way every breath hitches on something like a sob and the way that he's shaking so hard that Dan can see it and he doesn't even have his glasses on.

"Can't get my shirt off," Rorschach tells Dan finally, as if it's the worst of his problems and that it's all he can take. He hunches over and finally lets himself go. The mask bubbles as a sob, a real one, escapes him, and he rips it off in anger, tossing it away. He can hear Dan gasp, but doesn't look at him. It doesn't matter. Not anymore.

Doctor Manhattan could do wonders, miracles even, if he wanted to. But the fact of the matter was that he didn't want to. He didn't _want_ anything. He didn't _do_ anything. Why would he do anything to help _him?_

_'Funny thing is,' _the Comedian had told him once, _'Blue Balls over there could make it so that the world doesn't need people like us to run around n' try n' fix shit. And he doesn't. He just lets us fuck it up worse and tells us we're doomed five minutes before the axe has dropped.'_

It's over.

--

Dan isn't sure what to do at first. Surely standing there frozen and gawking like an idiot isn't the right answer. But he can't seem to come up with anything better. Anything is better than nothing and he _has _to do _something. _He pushes the door open a bit more and shuffles over, sitting slowly on the side of the tub. He cinches closer (but he doesn't look at him-- not directly-- he's not sure he wants to anymore) and he reaches out to him. A tentative hand on his shoulder, moving to slip his arms around that same shoulder.

And then Rorschach is lunging against Dan, clinging like they're-- like he's-- being torn apart. And Dan doesn't know what he hell else to do but let him, his broken friend.

Tens of minutes pass and Rorschach's not crying anymore. He's still making that-- hohn-- that sound, but the tears on Dan's shirt have dried. He's still shaking, practically humming in vibration, but he's calmed considerable. And Dan can finally speak.

But he doesn't. He slides his hands over his partner's back so that when his cool fingers curl under his shirt, it wont shock him too badly. He doesn't respond but to sit up as Dan carefully peels his shirt off. It's a struggle, getting his right arm and his head out of it without looking at him, but his left arm is easier, because though Dan really _doesn't_ want to look at _it,_ he wants less to hurt his friend, and he puts his single attention on it.

Rorschach watches him. Watches the way Dan wont look at him. He doesn't know whether to feel touched or upset. And he also can't help but wonder what this injury will mean for the two of them. If he would ever seen Dan again after this. If he knew Dan, and he liked to think that he _did_, their few short years of partnership and even fewer of good friendship wouldn't go to waste.

Dan would try in vain to find some way for him to still be a part of this world and Rorschach-- _Walter _would only grow more distant now that he had failed his ideal. He would likely lose his job as well; after all, he can't sew with only one hand. His landlord would kick him out and he would have to find a new place to work and live, but who the hell would hire a gimp anyway and who would rent a flat to a handicapped unemployed mutt and jesusandhesonlytwentyeightyearsold

Walter yelps and jolts away from Dan when he feels a warm wet hand stroke down his back. The surprise and the pain shock him out of his implosive thoughts and he stares hard at Dan who is finally venturing to look at his face, making it no higher than Walter's cheeks.

"It should be fine now," Dan tells him, scooping another handful of water and moving his hand from his shoulder down to his lifeless arm. His eyes turn away and he stands, crouching to pick up Rorschach's face and hand it to him. "Do you need help getting in?"

"Don't think so."

Dan nods and moves to the door. "I'll be right down the hall in my room if you need anything, okay, Buddy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm gonna throw your clothes in the wash too," he stoops to pick those up as well. "You're staying the night tonight, right?" And then Dan looks at him, met Walter's eyes as he glances over his shoulder.

Walter stares down at him, unabashedly and nods slowly. "Yes."

Dan smiles softly. "Good."

And when he moves to leave, Rorschach has a grip on his shirt, keeping him from standing. "Daniel..."

"Yeah?" Dan asks, looking at him again, seeing his brows purse and his eyes... He doesn't know what is it, what's in them, but he can see something.

"Thank you."

--

Walter tentatively steps into the bathtub. He hisses as he sinks in, the steaming water scorching his goosepimpled skin. He reclines against the back of the tub, submerges to get the whole of himself wet, and then pushes himself back up so that his nose is just above the surface.

It hurts. All of it hurts. All of him. And as he relaxes into the water, it clouds almost instantly, contaminated. He's covered in blood and sweat and muck despite the fact that he showered last night after patrol, as he usually does. The water turns cloudy, then a murky rose hue, and his skin from white to a blotchy pink, then red. He's covered in bruises and scars. Some new. Some old. He's a patchwork of colors.

He lifts a finger on his right hand, waits, and then then taps the surface of the water, watches the ripples multiply from where it lands, marveling over how one tiny movement could grow, break and multiply with just a subtle collision.

The pain and the filth ease and seep out and off of him and into the water.

And all is silent.

--

Looking at him. Seeing his face. His eyes. How Dan had longed to see him. And now... God, he still wanted it. But such were simple luxuries. He took them granted with everyone everyday. And it was a luxury he had just taken for granted with the one person he had always longed to see the most.

And to touch.

_The most. _

Not because he needs to-- in order to stitch up wounds and yank him out of the way in the nick of time-- but because he wants to. Because he is wanted to-- too.

--

Walter has never done it in the bath before, made the ripples. He hasn't taken a bath since he was eight. And he hasn't the foggiest clue what had let him to it tonight.

_Didn't think I could stand on my own. Didn't want to have to ask Daniel for help. For him to have to see. Have to hold me up. _But he already had. Both. And it had been through Walter's own actions. Dan has seen him. He's seen him naked before, seen his face on the street as well though without recognition.

But Dan hasn't held him before tonight. But he has never seen him so raw. And Walter had been crying. He doesn't have the heart to be angry with himself. It felt good to let go like that after so many years of bottling up horrors and fears. It was the pain. His arm. And the water. His stupid shirt. And Dan's arms around him. On him. Daniel touched him. Unnecessarily. And the bath.

He hates baths. Loathes them. Because of her. When he was a boy, she-- _mother_-- would kneel next to the tub and scrub him raw when he was this dirty, scour his skin until he behaved. And he would cry. Bathing was always punishment. One of many. Any time she had touched him, it was to hit him or hurt him. Because he was bad or filthy. Because she hated him.

As long as he was a good boy, as long as he stayed clean, as long as he stayed away, he wasn't punished. Mother never touched him otherwise. Except to hurt him. Nobody ever has.

At the home, they had showers, which he used daily.

He keeps himself and everything in his life neat and clean and pure.

He reaches for the soap. With the wrong arm. And it's agony. _Hunhh_. His wrist sags without a cast. The collision with the wall jars his fractured bones painfully. It floats eerily in the water and he feels like vomiting as he draws it against his chest. He sits up and searches through the ugly water for the soap, feeling with his right hand. Each time he thinks he's grasping it, it slips out of his fingers and only adds to his frustration. Cooling droplets move down his spine and he sighs, closes his eyes, hangs his head.

He pulls his hand from the water and rubs his neck, squeezing the tense muscles and watching in his mind's eye as the droplets slip down his back, washing away everything. He provides another scoop of water, more deliberate this time to wash over his back as Dan had done, pressing his palm against the stiff muscles of his shoulders. As Dan had done. He imagines a hand working its way down with the trailing droplets.

He has never been given such a caring tender touch in all his life.

His hand lowers into the water and he finds the soap against his knee.

Walter wishes he was here to rinse him clean.

--

Dan doesn't blame himself. Not really. He's been at this long enough to know that sometimes things just happen. He might have prevented it. He might have done many things that are too late to do anything about now. He also might not have done them.

--

He isn't shaking anymore.

He isn't cold.

The ripples are easier to see.

--

Holding him but trying not to touch him more than was necessary. That truly wasn't his doing. But pouring water over his shoulders. Rubbing it into his bare skin. That'd been pure indulgence. He tells himself that he meant for it to be a comforting act. For Rorschach. But it was selfish. He had done it because he wanted to. To make _himself_ feel better, though _he_ wasn't the one who needed comforting. And Rorschach was never that easy.

By the time Dan comes back upstairs from the nest, Rorschach's clothes are in the washer. The washer took forever to fill. Rorschach rarely showers in his own flat anymore. He's told Dan that the water in his building sometimes doesn't get anything above freezing cold. When it's as cold out as it is tonight, Dan can't blame him for using all the hot water. Dan can't blame him for much of anything right now.

He can only imagine what's running through his partner's mind. He's sure that Rorschach is worried about the mask. He lives by that thing, like a talisman that makes him better than what he already is, whatever that may be. Dan understands. He feels the same way when it comes to Nite Owl. But Dan could live without the mask if he needed to. He could go on with his life, make friends outside of crime fighting (when he had the time), and go on doing what he had set out to do with his life... Whatever _that _may be.

As for Rorschach's personal life, Dan knows even less in that respect. He doesn't know hardly anything about Rorschach outside of their nighttime façades. Every time his partner revealed anything at all about his true self, it was done with shame. And that makes Dan want to know more. And it makes him feel like shit for not looking at him.

From what he can extrapolate, his friend isn't as well off to have a rich father die and leave him tons of money. Or to afford a place with a decent shower at any rate. Dan knows that Rorschach works. That it was one of the reasons he sometimes didn't show up for patrol. He gets so damn tired at times that he can't see straight or even argue when Dan makes him take the guest bedroom and calls off patrol for the evening. And if his partner's personal vendetta and eerie knowledge against and about particular gangs or leads that revolve around or quite near the garment district... Well if that isn't an indication of _where_ he might work, then Dan doesn't know what is.

And now his hand is ruined. For tonight. Hopefully just for tonight.

Dan walks upstairs and pauses by the bathroom, an ear to the door as he listens to the quiet sounds of water sloshing in the tub. He moves to open the door and catches himself before he goes further. _What the hell am I doing?_ It surprises him how much he wants to go in and sit and... Well, _watch._

_There's nothing wrong with that, right? You'd never even consider it if not for what happened tonight,_ he acknowledges, chastising himself. But he doesn't leave. His hand is on the handle.

It should feel more perverse. It should feel wrong to admit that he wants to watch his friend bathe. But he feels no different than mornings, years ago, when he would sit on the sink counter next to where his father would stand and watch him shave. It was always a matter of being close. Secure. And when he was old enough, his dad would let him take the straight-razor and wipe it off for him. Back when his father still smiled on him and recites Halakhah with him and would let Dan help...

And when his father was dying, Dan sat with him in his hospital bed with a bedpan full of warm water, a safety razor in hand, shaving his father's neck. And his father wouldn't look at him.

Dan lets go of the handle and moves away from the door. He goes to his bedroom to get his glasses and gather some extra clothes for Rorschach to slip into until his regular clothes are done, or at least something to sleep in if he can sleep at all.

Dan wont be sleeping.

--

Dan knocks on the door. "Rorschach?"

"Hurm?"

"Can I, er... Can I come in?" Dan doesn't wait for an answer. He turns the door handle and pushes the door open a bit, poking his head in. A blue eyed, mop-topped lobster stares up at him from the bath tub. Dan grins.

A flicker of expression shines in the eyes. "_What_" his partner asks accusingly.

"You're bright red, man. Er, your skin, that is."

Walter frowns and looked down at himself, his chest, inspecting his skin. And then he looks at Dan. "Yes. Water is still hot." He gives a shrug which transforms his calm expression into a pained wince. "Mmnh."

Dan steps further into the bathroom. "I brought you a change of clothes." He holds the clothes up briefly for emphasis and then, quickly, as if the first sentence is the afterthought, "How's the pain?"

"Better," Walter told him, eying Dan as he stares pointedly at the shower curtain. Dan is surprised that he still hasn't put the mask back on. Walter is surprised that he's acting so... Uncouth. "Barely tolerable," Walter adds, ignoring Dan's behavior. "Will get better."

Dan turns his gaze to him finally to see him. _Stop acting like you're ashamed of him! _"Sure you wont take anything for the pain?"

Walter shook his head. "Already been through the worst of it."

"Hey, you missed a spot there on your arm, buddy," Dan tells him, pointing. But Walter doesn't look as Dan ventures a small step closer. "And your shoulder and--"

Dan pauses, noting how Walter turns a shade brighter of red. "You can't reach it, can you?" He can't wash the only arm he has to wash with. And he can't reach most of his back. Dan's heart flops and before he can stop himself, he's kneeling by the tub. "Do you want me to--?"

Walter looks at him, his eyes dark and imploring. He lifts his arm out of the water and hands the glistening soap bar to Dan. Then nods.

--

Walter sighs contently, his head lowered, eyes closed. He's turned in the tub to face the wall to expose more of his back. He's draped his ruined arm across his lap, supported by the knees that he's drawn up to account for the small width of the tub, and he rests his head against his bicep.

Dan is washing his back. His sleeves are rolled up and he's got a soapy washrag in his left. The last time he looked, there were droplets of water on Dan's glasses.

Walter is too aware of everything. Of the soft yet coarse friction of the rag and how it contrasts with the graze of Dan's broad, smooth fingers. Of the fact that Dan must have a hangnail on his thumb and that it should feel unpleasant as it drags on his skin.

That this should _really_ bother him.

It doesn't.

He's pretty sure that his back is clean now. But he doesn't ask Dan to stop. It's not so bad without having to look at him. It's not so bad when Dan follows each gentle swipe of the washrag with one of his hand. Walter is hard, erect between his knees. But this isn't exactly sexual. It's just... It doesn't hurt. And he's clean. And he feels more okay than he did an hour ago. Than he has in a while.

--

"It's--" Dan says. He doesn't finish. He wants to say something. Anything. But he doesn't know what else there is to say. He was going to say _it's okay. _But it isn't and they both know that.

Rorschach extends his right arm over the side of the tub and Dan reaches over his partner's shoulder, re-wetting the rag and not looking at his ruined arm. He lathers soap in the rag and makes a smooth swipe with it from his right shoulder down to his wrist. Twice.

He sets the rag aside, playfully drapes it on Rorschach's shoulder, his neck, receiving a look when he gets suds on the other man's cheek. He'll have to wash those off as well.

Dan uses both hands, rubbing the soap in, taking up dirt and sweat and blood. He leans closer, reaching into the tub to bring scoops of water to rinse it away. He counts freckles and ignores the filthy water that is falling over the side and onto his pajama pants. He feels his stomach clench when he rinses Rorschach's forearm and Dan sees his fingers uncurl invitingly. But...

But that seems far more intimate than Dan can handle at the moment, touching his partner's hand.

Without reason.

He does it anyway.

--

Walter swallows and does his best not to react as Dan's fingers move over his wrist and the butt of his palm. It tickles a bit. His fingers curl over Dan's reflexively. There is some hesitation. He opens his eyes to watch as the fingers pause and then continue, opening his hand until they are palm to palm.

Walter's fingers are longer but Dan's are thicker, stronger. They curl around his fingertips and he knows, as he presses them into Dan's palm, that this is an excuse. He anticipates the way Dan's fingers will lace between his own, as if he is willing it to happen himself, and before they can slide out of his reach, he twines them tightly, squeezing Dan's hand.

He didn't realize it til now. _Have wanted this for a long time. _To be touched and cared for. _To not hurt._

He turns his head as Dan props his arm across the side of the tub, behind Walter's shoulder, fingers on his arm, an honest fulfillment of the need to touch. Walter closes his eyes, tilts his head back to Dan's as his forehead leans to Walter's neck.

--

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

--

Walter lifts his head as Dan lets his hand go. He's not sure how long they sat like that. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. But he feels Dan shift away. And he feels hollow.

"Have you washed your hair?"

Dan removes the washrag from Walter's shoulder and puts it in the lukewarm water to wash it out. Walter's eyes glance sideways as Dan hangs the rag over the faucet.

Dan repeats his question.

Walter closes his eyes and licks his lips. "Yes."

"...Oh."

He feels water and fingers on his shoulder and his neck. A thumb wipes soap from his jaw. His skin crawls as silence hangs over them. And he can imagine the ripples. He can feel them in his skin as deliberate fingertips comb through the hair on the back of his neck. _Go ahead,_ he wants to say. But he cant.

He starts when Dan's hand is on his forearm. His _left_ forearm. He opens his eyes and tucks the battered limb closer to his chest. Dan's hand slips beneath his own, his palm against the top of Walter's hand, his own palm open to the air. Dan is exaggeratedly gentle, careful with the broken wrist. It makes the pain of moving it tolerable.

Dan's arm comes around the other side of him and he brushes the pads of his fingers with his own. "Can you feel me?"

Walter swallows and casts his eyes low. He shakes his head. He can feel Dan everywhere. _Everywhere _except where Dan is currently touching him.

He can hear Dan swallow. "The water's getting cold. Are you ready to get out?"

--

"I'm, uh. I'm gonna get a fresh towel and some wraps for your arm, okay?" Dan calls from the hallway. He opens the linen closet and stands within the frame, taking a moment to adjust himself inside his pajamas. He's not surprised by his arousal in the least. The past sixty minutes have been the most intimate of his life.

And Rorschach hadn't shied away from his affections once. Dan had never really tried touching him before. He had always just assumed by the way his partner reacted when _others_ touched him... _Well, you know what they say when you assume..._

Dan shivers as a chill runs up his spine and he turns and looks in time to see an explosive blue flash illuminate the bathroom.

"Hello, Rorschach," Dan hears and he closes his eyes, his heart sinking.

"Dr. Manhattan--"

"Laurie is informing me tomorrow that Dan called."

Dan goes downstairs, leaving the closet open and his partner with Jon.

--

It's six in the morning. Dan stands in his kitchen, absently toying with the coffee percolator. The sun is rising unnaturally early for the winter months and there is a fresh layer of snow covering everything, reflecting its light. He hears Rorschach enter the kitchen but he doesn't look, watching the minute details of the Chrysler building become more fine in the distance as the world brightens.

There's a hand on Dan's forearm. There's a bare thumb, a thumb which had no strength or feeling in it ten minutes before, brushing against Dan's wrist. The fingers tighten and Dan squeezes the counter so hard that it creeks.

"Sorry."

"Why?"

There's no response. The hand and the thumb and the touch and he presence are gone. "Sorry this happened to us."

Dan stands in his kitchen. Alone.

--

Rorschach stands in front of the rumbling drier, his arms crossed over his chest, the mask swirling slowly as he waits. He's impatient.

Dan is standing behind him, leaning against Archie's rear booster. Rorschach is impatient, waiting for his clothes to finish drying. Or for Dan to say something. Do something. He knows that his partner isn't good at these things. Making up his mind. Doing something about anything. Such a fantastic contradiction. It's not different really than Walter and Rorschach.

Wearing the mask again, he hates himself for what he's done. For revealing himself, his weaker side. For _crying_. For giving up so readily. For wanting to take the mask off now, for wanting to turn and face Dan. _Is cowardice to stand here and ignore what happened,_ he thinks. _But too indulgent. Want more and don't even know what this... That was. Will always be wanting more and more. _

So he waits for Dan to do what he usually does; say the wrong thing. Awkwardly fumble through what he thinks Rorschach wants to hear, even if it means compromising what he truly feels. And he'll do nothing. He never does.

The buzzer on the drier sounds and the Nest grows quiet. He steps forward and opens the drier door, crouching in front of it as he reaches in and pulls his clothes out. They're deliciously hot in his hands. It's beautiful irony, the way he was brought to his knees, given such heat and comfort, and now as he stands in the cold basement, his bare toes curling on the cement when he stands again, he still shivers when Dan touches him with hands that are just as hot as he expects them to be.

He is still as Dan lifts the back of the shirt he had borrowed and rubs his palms against the planes of his back. he shouldn't like this so much. Before, he was vulnerable. Sniveling little Kovacs. His world had been falling apart and he along with it, too eager to give in. And these hands were all that had kept him together with a tenderness he didn't deserve.

Now he is stronger. He can stand on his own to feet. He doesn't have to give in. "Dan--"

"Shh," his partner hushes beside his ear. One hand is outside his shirt, moving over his shoulder, to his neck. His fingers wiggle beneath the hem of the latex mask and Rorschach doesn't move as Dan brushes his fingers up through his ginger hair, the mask with it. _Rorschach_ does nothing as Dan removes it altogether.

"I'm not sorry," Dan tells him. "That this happened, I'm not. I'm sorry that it caused you pain. But you'll be fine now. I'm sorry if you regret... What happened upstairs." Dan pauses and Walter wonders if he is supposed to say something. He can't think with those hands on him, moving around him embrace him, both settling over his pounding heart. "I don't."

--

Dan can't help himself. He wants so much, so many things that he's never fully acknowledged, that he needs. And one of them is to _just fucking hold him._ And so he does. And when Rorschach shifts so slightly, moving just the smallest amount to lean back against him, he's no longer ashamed to admit it to himself.

Rorschach's hands and arms come over his, a thin layer of cotton between them. And before Dan can truly identify the intention, he is lifting the smaller man's shirt and Rorschach is lifting his arms. He's shivering and taking Dan's arm and drawing it back around him, and Dan hums with something like love, Agape, as he pulls him tight.

"Stay." There's no argument.

--

He still aches. Jon could have taken away the residual pain but he didn't. And he's almost grateful. It makes these surreal moments with Dan a bit more concrete. It makes him a little less bitter. And a little more because he knows it can't last forever.

Dan doesn't say a word. He just holds him, traces scars on his bare chest, freckles that he had forgotten to count earlier, that he couldn't see now from where he stood but knew were there.

There's a line on Walter's skin, the line where Dan had sewn in stitches that are no longer there. And Dan's fingers are touching it, twining once more to his own. His hands are shaking. Walter turns his head to look at him. _Yes. _"Can feel you." There's a line and Dan kisses it, lowers his head and closes his eyes.

"Does it--?"

"No. Doesn't hurt. Feels... Feels good."

He can feel Dan mummer something, feel it rumble in the chest at his back. And when Walter shivers again, Dan takes his undershirt from atop the drier, stepping to stand beside him, and rolls it up. Walter doesn't complain as Dan helps him shrug it on, much like he had helped him peel it off earlier, though he was not in need of aid now.

Dan's hands smooth the shirt over his body, making the cloth more solid, yet even less of a barrier as he asserts his own closeness. The shirt is still blissfully warm.

Dan reaches behind himself blindly for another article, turns to look and produces his white button down shirt. The blood stain marks the sleeve orange.

Walter takes it and sets it aside, then looked at Dan expectantly, and he turns back, producing Walter's boxers. Dan blushes and hands those to Walter, turning away bodily to sift through the clothing as he strips down and pulls these on himself. Dan hands back the striped trousers as they're requested, fingering the sleeve of the suit jacket. It's stained, but it only makes the violet a shade darker, like indigo.

Dan jolts when he feels him. It is not he who asserts himself. It is Walter who reaches out to him, wraps his arms around his partner from behind, his head lowered, the crown against Dan's spine. And Dan is held in turn. It burns right through him.

He takes one of Walter's hands and brings it under his chin, sighing when lithe, calloused fingers-- no longer soft and smooth with soap and water-- uncurl and explore his jaw. He lowers his head and draws his lips apart as they're caressed.

"What's your name?"Dan asks without the slightest clue as to where the question came from.

Walter's index finger traces the ridge of the top of Dan's lip and as he answers him. And then he pauses,_ feeling_ Dan speak his name. And it doesn't hurt.

He feels.

_Amazing._


End file.
